


wonderful part of the mess that we made

by strawberryblonde



Category: Formula 1 RPF
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-06-30
Updated: 2019-06-30
Packaged: 2020-05-31 10:17:53
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 8,133
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19423951
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/strawberryblonde/pseuds/strawberryblonde
Summary: Daniel Ricciardo is an hacker. He also likes to call Max every sort of stupid nickname.Max Verstappen is a professional spy. He also secretly likes every single one of those stupid nicknames.Sebastian Vettel likes to call up meetings. And everyone else is on board for the ride.(Except for the meetings. They all hate the meetings.)





	wonderful part of the mess that we made

**Author's Note:**

> Okay, so this is an experiment I have been trying to do for so long ajsdjdfdfja it's not my usual way of writing, I have been trying something new but I don't know if it actually came out decent. Anyway, apart of a little bit of cursing this time there are no warnings. I just hope I din't mess up all the verb tense, I swear uuugh dsfjadhfd  
> Hope you enjoy! Btw, title is a line from Flaws by Bastille :)

The meeting room is packed, that morning. Sebastian is menacingly standing in front of the long, oval, table; his long fingers are wrapped around a wobbly cup of blueberry frappe and his whole figure is almost hidden behind the tallest pile of work papers Max Verstappen has ever seen in all the years he has worked for him (or maybe in all his life, to be honest).

Lando Norris has his legs perched on the table, nose buried deep in a school book and frantic eyes skimming trough the pages, probably in a last desperate attempt of learning something he should have studied weeks ago. Daniel Ricciardo is busy trying to glue his face to his laptop, forehead so close to the screen sooner or later they will become one enormous shapeless duo, while Kimi Raikkonen is aimlessly scrolling through his phone. The rest of the group is just waiting for Sebastian to stop impersonating The Godfather and finally tell them why on earth he has decided to call up that meeting. Especially during a cold February morning they all could have spent sleeping. 

That dense silence is suddenly broke by Pierre; he has never been used to be that quiet for more than ten seconds, let alone be quiet _and_ steady, for God knows how long, waiting for Sebastian to finally say something. So, he plasters a cheeky smile on his rosy face, and says: “Sebastian, why are we all here?” 

Sebastian takes a sip of his frappe, casting a disapproving look toward the chaotic room; and it’s true, they all may be silent, but they are all so busy doing whatever, it still feels like a complete mess. He lifts an hand and, just like that, every single pair of eyes is directly lied on him. Even Valtteri stops drumming his fingers on the table’s glassy surface, to focus on Sebastian. 

“From now on, we will meet every week,” Sebastian says, not before another five seconds of dramatic, anticipating silence. Charles open his mouth, to express his strong aversion to that idea -or probably to vehemently protest- but Sebastian swirls his hand in the air some more and Charles can’t do anything but slouch against the chair, pouty lips perched on his scowling face. 

“As I was saying,” Sebastian murmurs, completely unfaded by the small cataclysm that just went trough Charles’ head, “these meetings will help us debrief what happened during the week. It’s just a way to keep track of everything and avoid problems.”

“Can’t you just send us e-mails?” Daniel asks, snorting away all the implications that those meetings will have on his couch-lover life style. He dodges the small spitball Valtteri has just tossed toward the bin with an awkward twitch of his head. Sebastian tries to go full zen-mode, because sometimes he feels like the father of a bunch of children, and tries to ignore all the distraught stares people are flashing at him. Max manages to grab Valtteri’s spitball before it falls on the ground (that toss was probably never meant to end up in the bin). Maybe he can use it as a weapon if things will escalate and he’ll need something he can use to shut up a protesting Daniel that could get the both of them fired.

“Of course I could, Daniel. But maybe these meetings will help you know each other better?” 

Sebastian’s tone is slightly uncertain, and it curves right into the last syllabus, making his words sound more like a question, rather than a statement. Valtteri snorts. Kimi does it too. 

Lando buries himself deeper into his sweatshirt, turning his head to avoid joining the conversation. 

“Socialize,” Daniel deadpans; Charles snickers a little bit, unsuccessfully trying to hide his cheeky lips behind his palm. 

“Yes, Daniel. Exactly that. Perhaps you will spend at least one hour of your life outside those rooms.” Sebastian says, again. And Max has started to notice it, that sometimes Sebastian’s words get cut in half, an hysterical nuance twisting all his sentences. Maybe he is starting to despise all of them, with their weird habits and sense of social interactions. 

It’s not their fault, though. Because if someone is to blame, that one is probably Sebastian himself. He knew what kind of job they all did, when he decided to found that company; he was (and is) perfectly aware that half of them are well-renewed hackers while the other half has been trained as spies. Max really didn’t know what Sebastian had expected, but that is what they are. A bunch of socially awkward guys that try to get on with their lives. Possibly without weekly meetings, that’s it. 

“I spend my life outside this headquarter,” Charles blurts out, and he actually does, since he is the one doing all the on-field missions. His voice, though, gets covered by Kimi’s way more high-pitched and exasperated _“These fucking things will last one hour?”_

Sebastian pinches the bridge of his nose, _hard_. It’s not even nine o’clock in the morning and he can already feel the phantom of a strong headache starting to explode in the tangle of synapses and nerves that he is, right now.

“Also,” Lando butts in, finally emerging from his cocoon of indifference and black fabric, “we already live together. We don’t need weekly meetings. We don’t need to socialize.”

Kimi nods, and it’s a really enthusiastic nod, that one. “Lando is right, Seb. We don’t even have missions every week, what are we going to talk about?”

Valtteri keeps mumbling under his breath that he has never done anything bad, in his life, to deserve a torture like that. 

“No one likes this idea, then?” Sebastian asks minutes later, throwing provoking looks at every single one of the guys sitting in front of him. He bets that if Lewis was there, he would have supported him somehow. Lewis always does.

“No.” Valtteri affirms, tone dry. Everyone jumps in the “Valtteri is right” bandwagon with a series of nods and approving babbling. 

Sebastian smiles, and the spark flashing in his sleepy and foggy irises is almost unsettling. The room is once again filled with surreal silence when Sebastian, with all the calm in the world, finally deadpans an incontrovertible, “That’s a shame. Because we are doing it anyway.”

And with that, Sebastian is walking out of the room, a sign that probably everyone has been dismissed. The only audible thing is Lando’s frustrated grunt. 

-

It’s seven o’clock in the morning when Max steps inside the chaotic metro, jiggling his way trough the mayhem of people rushing to get to their trains. He dodges a young student’s elbow, precariously near to kicking him in the ribs, and even the bag of a frantic mother, too busy running toward her son to realize she almost knocked Max over. Max doesn’t do well with confusion and nervous crowds, especially morning people whose only goal is that of moving as fast as possible not to be late. He is a little disgruntled when he pushes the sweatshirt’s cap right into that messy nest he sometimes can call hair. 

“Remind me why we always take the missions that start at the crack of dawn, _Three_.” 

Daniel’s laugh (because Three is the codename they use when working) is all wrong, in that moment, when Max is hearing it trough the almost-hidden headphone stashed inside his right ear. It curves weirdly, the electronic device making it sound like a crunchy mess. 

“I don’t know, cupcake. To me, yesterday is today and today is yesterday. Time is such a weird concept hen you are an hacker stashed inside a room, you know.”

Max rolls his yes, “Don’t call me like that. And by the way, if I am not working, it means you aren’t either, Dan—”

“There, there, we don’t want the world to know my name, right? Secrecy, please.” Daniel blurts, actually managing to stop Max from revealing his name to the world. It probably would have meant nothing, since no one is listening to Max. But better safe than sorry; there is never enough precaution when it comes to their job.

Max bites his lips and, since he has no doubt Daniel has hacked the metro’s camera system, he nods. When Daniel starts laughing, right against Max’s ears, Max has to fight hard to keep his own lips in place. And it’s not just because he is right, that he wants to smile, but because there is something infectious in Daniel’s guffawing voice, still reverberating trough his head.

“Brain back to the mission,” Daniel says, seconds later, one hand diligently typing on the keyboard, while the other is busy rummaging trough the bag of sweets Lewis has brought to work, that morning. “I’ve worked my magic and I found out our client will arrive in like— five minutes.”

Max snorts, because Daniel has the power of giving him last-minutes info. He is really tired, so tired not even pressing his palms against his fogged eyes has helped him feel a little bit more alive. Despite that, he still is an elegant silhouette while he shifts into the cold morning air, propping himself against a pillar. 

“Ehi, pirouette of my heart, can you lift your head a little bit instead of staring at your hideous boots? I can’t see the escape routs, this way.” Daniel mumbles, right when Max’s lucubration made it possible to completely detach himself from the world, reaching a zen level of inner peace. Something that, between his work and the questionable house he was offered to live in, he hasn't experienced in a while. 

“Which direction should I look?” he asks, calmly, despite being a little pissed that his eyes-open nap was interrupted. After all, Daniel Ricciardo may be a tornado of sarcasm and witty remarks, but Max has no doubts he is the best, in their line of work. Even better than Kimi Raikkonen. And the truth is, everyone else (including Daniel) would laugh at his face, hearing that statement, because Kimi is worldly recognized as the best hacker in the field. But Max can’t fight that little squeaky inner voice screaming in his brain that without Daniel as guidance he would have already ended up dead somewhere. 

“On the left. Now move your hand a little — that’s it, this is great.”

Max slouches back against the pillar, careful not to cover the camera he has stashed underneath his shirt. He sighs, because that is something he usually does when on a mission, “Is this client coming or not? I am bored.”

Daniel plops his feet on the table, perching the keyboard right against his knees. The laugh that escapes his mouth is something Max has been longing for since years; it’s beautiful and it’s echoing — it’s everything and more, even when the headphones are making it sound like a wobbly mix of vowels. 

“Let’s check it, honey bun. First bench on the right, do you see the guy sitting there?”

Max nods, Daniel smiles.

“Second bench on the left, too. They both match the description we were given.”

Max nods again, and then he is in motion, mumbling a slurred “keep an eye on the other one.” He sits near the first guy Daniel has mentioned, watching him carefully, all his spy senses coming to life in the blink of an eye: there’s a spot of tomato sauce, on his shirt, alongside something that vaguely looks like baby food; his tie is all weird and messy, and the jacket he is wearing hasn’t been ironed properly. Maybe in forever. To Max, he doesn’t look like someone on his way to lead his billionaire pharmaceutical company. 

“It’s not this one, right?” Max asks nonetheless, pressing his index finger against the buzzing ear bud. A train arrives, covering, for one second, all the other noises. 

Then, it’s Daniel’s voice again, “I guess so, sugar, now go get the second one.” 

This time, since Max is almost certainly approaching the real target, he slows down, movements suddenly becoming sharper, cleaner. He is sinuous, when he sits down on the second bench, face hidden behind a black scarf and skidding eyes trying to spot if someone has noticed him. Noticed something. Then, while Daniel is busy chatting into his ear about the latest show he has decided to watch, Max slides his hand into the man’s pocket. It’s almost enviable, the class and the perfection of that single gesture. 

He texts Sebastian’s company private number —the one Kimi has coded years ago, definitely untouchable and impossible to track- in order to let Daniel collect all the phone’s information and datas. Seconds later, he has already deleted the text and put the phone back where he has found it. He starts to walk toward a random train that has just arrived. 

“Was it the correct one?” he asks, a few minutest later, fingers wrapped around his bag's shoulder strap and some leftover adrenaline still pumping trough his blood. Daniel’s silence is a bit weird, actually; Max is so used to live with Daniel chattering his ear off that when he is gifted with a little bit of silence, it sometimes becomes so loud it almost feels unbearable.

“Bingo, choco cake. Bingo. All the info we needed are in this phone. Aaah,” Daniel sighs, ecstatic, “I love the 21st century’s technology.” 

Max wants to laugh, because Daniel isn’t much older than him, but sometimes he likes to pretend he is an eighty years old man discovering the wonders of technology for the first time. 

“Anything else we have to do or that’s it for today?” Daniel casually asks, fingers still loudly punching on the keyboard. It’s so vehement, Daniel’s typing, that Max can not only hear the echo of his _tap-tap-tap_ but even the string of insults Kimi is throwing at him trough clenched teeth. 

(Kimi doesn’t like loud noises when working. Or more specifically, Kimi hates that his room is directly near Daniel’s.)

“Nope, Seb got nothing else for us, in that stupid meeting.”

Daniel snickers, “Great. I’ll give you ten minutes to come here and then I’ll treat you to lunch.”

And maybe Max finds himself begging the train to go faster, in order to reach the headquarter as soon as possible, but that’s just because of the prospect of free food. Absolutely nothing else. 

-

It is a particularly cold afternoon, that one. So chill the cutting wind manages to slides underneath Max’s coat, spreading a sea of goosebumps right against his icy skin. They sky has turned into a grave shade of gray and Max suspects sooner or later it’ll start raining. He sighs, nose high up in the air, tired eyes trying to look past the cluster of white clouds. 

“Where the fuck is Lando?” Max hisses, after another two minutes of jumping on the spot to try and feel a little bit warmer. His attempts are, however, extremely unsuccessful. He buries his hands inside the coat’s pockets; in his head, Sebastian’s worried and paternal voice reverberates with a string of recommendations. It’s not Max’s fault he is so forgetful, though. How could he have remembered the gloves that he had put near the door, exactly for the purpose of not forgetting them? 

People are expecting way too much from him. 

“Still at home.” Daniel warns him, and his words are muffled by the bunch of spaghetti he has just stashed into his mouth. Max wants to cry, he really wants, but maybe it’s too cold for his lachrymal glands to properly work. He is not sure his tears wouldn’t turn into stalagmites, at this point. So he grunts, because he has to express his disappointment somehow; it turns out, even his exasperated noises get turned into a bubble of white, cold mist. 

“At home,” Max deadpans. And the thing is, Max shouldn’t be so surprised, because Lando has always been an hotheaded mysterious figure, in their small company. After all, he has a whole past life no one knows anything about and a disappearing tendency made of moments when not even his partner knows where he actually is. Sebastian is losing his mind. Max’s both hands are not even sufficient to count all the times Sebastian has called, worried sick and on the verge of a breakdown, to ask about Lando’s whereabouts. 

Needless to say, no one has ever been able to answer him properly.

“Yep,” Daniel murmurs and his voice feels distant. Max doesn’t need to see him to know he is so bored he has probably started to plan the next Office Olympics, also known as a bunch of games they play with chairs and the help of a lifetime of questionable choices. 

“I can call Valtteri, though. He shouldn't be too far from where you are.” Daniel adds, seconds later, as a second thought. 

“Yes, please. I am freezing here.” 

Daniel nods, stuffing another bunch of spaghetti in his mouth, before texting a quick message to Valtteri. It’s almost immediate, Valtteri’s answer: an impersonal _okay_ that sounds more pissed than anything. Daniel will take it anyway. 

“Valtteri on the rescue, buttercup.”

“Don’t call me like that,” Max grumbles, even though his words lack vehemency. He spends an incredible amount of time complaining about all the bizarre nicknames Daniel has given him, but in the candor of his mind he has no trouble admitting he is not that annoyed by them. 

“As you wish, muffin.”

“Three, _stop_.” 

“Of course, snowflake, of course.”

Max lets out an annoyed huff, but there isn’t much he can do for the smile that is pulling at the corner of his lips. He takes his hands out of the coat -the one Sebastian has gifted him with, more than four years ago- and he starts breathing on them. He is trying to warm them up; or, at least, this is the official excuse, because what Max is actually doing is keeping his mouth busy, in order not to say something stupid and embarrassing and maybe reveal his feelings to Daniel. There is no one to judge him for embarrassing distracting techniques, though, so Max shrugs and move on.

“Max,” Daniel murmurs, minutes later, tone so solemn Max’s spy senses skyrockets into motion in the span of an instant. 

The silence stretches for a couple of seconds, until Daniel blurts out, so loudly Max’s headphone starts ringing, an excited, “Tonight the restaurant at the end of the street gives discounts. Fried chicken for dinner? Your treat, by the way.” 

Max bites away the frustrated remark that was blossoming on his tongue. Of course Daniel didn’t mean anything serious, he never does. Sometimes Max wonders if Daniel’s behavior is a way of flirting with him or if Daniel is simply, _well_ , being Daniel Ricciardo, the guy with which Max shares an apartment and three quarters of his day. Max would like to know, because he is tired of keeping his feelings bottled to the point every time he lies his eyes on Daniel’s radiant face his chest literally hurts. 

And it’s right in the middle of his inner debate that Valtteri finally arrives, quiet and sinuous, slithering against the gray sky. His greeting is a light shoulder bump that scares the living shit out of Max. 

“What did you need?” Valtteri asks, but Max knows he doesn’t really need to explain Valtteri anything, especially because the latter’s hand is already stretched, as if to take that package Lando was supposed to deliver to the lab hours ago. 

“You know what to do, right?” he inquires nonetheless, placing the yellow envelope against Valtteri’s palm. He is pretty sure Valtteri really does, because he is Valtteri Bottas. And no one knows how he does it, but Valtteri always knows _everything_. 

“No problem.” Valtteri concedes, lips stretched into an enigmatic smile. He seems to be aware of the inner turmoil that, not even ten minutes ago, was confusing Max to a point of no return. He says nothing, though. He just waves his hand in front of the camera, to greet Daniel, and then he is back to straddling his motorbike. In the blink of an eye, Valtteri has already disappeared around the corner. 

“Well?” Daniel chimes in, as soon as the road is back to an empty stretch of nothing, some wild plants and more nothing. 

“What?”

“Tonight, you _broccoli_. Your treat?” Daniel seems almost annoyed, but years of cohabitation have taught Max how to read between the lines, so he just chuckles, a challenging tone making his words a little too enthusiastic, “I pay for the chicken if you let me play that weird game you came up with.” 

Daniel laughs, that perfect laugh that Max can almost hear tattooed on his heart. The one made of up and downs, the one Daniel makes when he is feeling carefree, when he is letting everything go. It’s harmonies and the chiming of bells and it makes Max’s heart do stupid somersaults. 

“Deal. Ah, and no one else is invited okay, Maxie? Just me and you.” 

Max would like to tell him they have been _just Daniel and Max_ for years, not only because they work together but also due to a lot of other complicated reasons that are actually one step sway from turning Max crazy. He just smiles, though, because there are no cameras, this time, that can show his reactions to Daniel. 

“You know it, Dan.” 

-

The house the whole group lives in, the one Sebastian gave to them years ago, is almost unbelievably big. So big that, despite what Lando said in that infamous first meeting, there are days in which they manage not to meet each other, even though everyone is at home. Max is not sure it’s made of nine floors, like Pierre seems to be certain of, but he is pretty confident everyone has his own small apartment, someway. 

And it’s in that apartment that Max is spending that chill evening, cuddled on the sofa,while his television is blasting some old reruns of a tv show Max surely watched but didn’t remember. It is a overdramatic soap opera and Max would love to tell he isn’t invested in it, but the reality is different. Because he is, invested, to the point that when somebody knocks at his door, he curses out loud for being interrupted right into the middle of a fight. 

“It’s open,” he screams, but it takes him exactly three seconds to regret that decision. It’s not like he doesn’t enjoy spending time with his colleagues; after all, when Lando is not lost somewhere around the world, he is one of his best friends; while Charles and Pierre are fun to hang out with, despite some tense moments when they were that close to fight about some stupid shit. Just, he prefers being alone sometimes. Or, more specifically, he prefers to be with Daniel. 

“Ehi, Max, I brought food.”

Max turns his head so quickly he hears something creak in the general direction of his neck. It doesn’t matter, though, because his eyes lock with Daniel’s and suddenly, it feels like time has stopped. Like everything is back to being all right. 

“What are you doing here?” he asks, confused and giddy. He doesn’t really know which emotion he should settle on; he is feeling many things, in that instant. 

“I thought we could do a movie night. But maybe you are tired and—”

Max hears it, the dejected undertone spouting here and there, around Daniel’s words. So he settles on smiling, stretching his lips wider and wider until they start to feel numb; until he spots a twin smile blossoming on Daniel’s face. 

“Which movie?” Max asks, hiding a yawn behind his trembling hand. After all, he really is tired, the two missions he completed that morning making him feel like someone who has just been run over by a truck. Twice. Daniel throws himself on the sofa, soft smile turning into an insolent grin.

“Legally Blonde, obviously.”

Max groans, smashing his head on the sofa’s arm rester, “Hideous choice. I am going to sacrifice for the team, though.” 

Daniel’s face is twisted into a mocking shocked expression, but there is a lingering sparkle of real disgust, flashing into his irises. Max can’t help but burst out laughing. Then he grabs a box of spring rolls from the small table in front of them. 

They eat in silence for a while, the movie (which they have seen dozen of times) a sort of background lullaby. The weight of their frantic morning is starting to make their bodies heavy, dull minds unable to properly focus on the screen. Max leaves the half-empty box of Chinese take-away on the table, then he is back to cuddling underneath his cozy blanket. 

It takes him the span of a second; an infinitesimal amount of time in which Max manages to go trough an heated inner debate. He is too tired to think about the consequences of his actions, though. And he doesn’t know why he does it, why he caves in, if it’s because of all those years he has spent harboring feelings for his hacker, or because that morning was so devastating he may have lost a couple brain cells in the process. He just get comfortable in a cocoon of flannel pajamas and soft duvets, pushing his body against Daniel’s side; his head delicately coming to rest onto Daniel’s chest.

“Max?” Daniel asks, in a measured whisper. But it doesn’t seem like Daniel really wants an explanation. Max smiles, lazy and content, when Daniel’s arm comes to rest on his shoulders.

“Let’s watch the movie.” he just says. He can feel Daniel’s skin getting tense for a second, underneath his cheek. And maybe Daniel wants to crack a joke, because he doesn’t know how to react to _that_. It’s an unexplored territory, the one they are slowly walking into. Their intimacy has never been so blatant, they have always flirted with stupid nicknames and cheeky remarks. There never was so much physical contact involved.

Daniel stays silent though, his hand automatically tangling between Max’s honey curls. He lets Max sleep against him for the rest of the night. 

-

Max catapults himself into Pierre’s office, disheveled air flying around and the expression of someone who has just seen a ghost; he is wheezing, trying to catch a breath he has probably lost somewhere in between their house and the headquarter. It seems he has just finished a marathon, but the truth is, that outside of the abilities he shows when on a mission, Max is a pretty lazy guy. And all that frantic running left him drenched in sweat and with a couple of red marks all over his neck. 

As soon as he enters the office, he notices that Charles and Lando are there too, sprawled all over the sofa, elegant fingers wrapped around their phones. Pierre is right in the middle of an engaging Packman’s game, loud voice screaming at the screen every now and then. 

No one has noticed him, so Max clears his throat. Suddenly, three faces are turned toward him, enquiring eyes looking directly at Max’s red, sweaty checks. 

“Do you need something, Maxie?” Charles asks, dropping his phone against the deep green sofa’s cushions. Max nods, he inhales sharply and then he blurts it out, the anxious, “Daniel is avoiding me” that he has been keeping on the tip of his tongue since he run out of his apartment, ten minutes ago. 

The fact is, that statement is not entirely true, because he and Daniel have been working like usual, the past few days; just yesterday they completed another mission without trouble and Daniel didn’t sound so different, his cheerful chattering resonating all over Max’s ear. But still, Max isn’t a fool; he sensed it, the awkwardness. He perceived it when Daniel didn’t use any nickname, slurring an impersonal _Thirty-three_ every time he had some important thing to say. And that’s what he did, he said things, he blurted out directions and suggestions; he never ever, not even once, made a non-mission related remark. 

Max doesn’t care about work, about doing the job right, about fucking useless missions. He only cares about Daniel, about the stupid move he had made that had possibly ruined everything. He knew he should have stopped himself in time, but for once he had let his instinct do the talking. The only thing he can do now is hope he doesn’t have to pick up the pieces. And he doesn’t know, whether those are the pieces of a relationship that could have worked, but never did, or the pieces of a lifetime friendship that has just been destroyed. 

Pierre’s eyebrow skyrockets up his forehead, “What are you talking about? He seemed completely normal to me, yesterday.”

“Yeah, but there is something different in Daniel.” Max murmurs, shaky hands vaguely projecting his thoughts in the air. The truth is, he loves them all, they are like a second family he has learned to trust throughout the years, but he values his privacy too much to actually process and confess them everything that is going on inside his confused heart. 

“He seems the same to me.” Lando chimes in, still typing on his battered phone. Max has never seen him use anything different than that old piece of junk; but maybe with all his secret activities, Lando didn’t get the memo he is now a spy engaged in one of the most prosperous companies of the country. 

Max lets out a frustrated sigh, “Yes, he is the same. With everyone else. He is just different — _with me_.” 

Max has probably said some magic words, because Charles turns his head so quickly and eagerly, to look at Max, everyone is pretty sure he has probably pulled one or two neck’s muscles. His eyes are wide and slightly maniac, while he whispers, “So you finally confessed to him?”

Max chokes on his saliva, hiding his embarrassment behind a coughing fit that has probably just pulverized every attempt he had of not looking suspicious as hell. 

“Max doesn’t like Daniel,” Lando squawks, his words getting lost between a booming laugh, as if the mere thought of Daniel and Max getting together is hilarious. Max’s guilty eyes, that are now looking at everything but them, are actually telling another story. To the point, Lando gasps out loud before mumbling a disbelieving, “Oh my God, you like Daniel.” 

Max doesn’t know how he should call it, to be honest, because what he feels for Daniel goes beyond a simple attraction. Just to make it quick and painless, though, he nods. At least one elephant is out of the room. The rest of the team doesn’t really need to know every detail of Max’s complicated and intricate system of feelings. 

“So, did you confess or not?” Pierre enquires, so caught up in that story he hasn't even noticed the yellow GAME OVER flashing all over his screen for the past five minutes. 

“Yes?” Max mumbles. Everyone is looking at him with bated breath. 

“No?” he adds, then, eyes skidding all over the room because he really doesn’t want to meet his friends’ disapproving looks. 

“Max it isn’t an hard question, you know. It’s either a yes or a no.” Charles snorts, quick fingers starting to nervously rub on his temples, as if Max’s mayhem of confused feelings (and statements) is causing him an headache. And if he wasn't battling against his own damn traitor of an heart, Max would have laughed, because karma is really a bitch and after all the headaches Charles’s singing have caused them, during the summer nights they sometimes spend together, it is only right that he is the one to suffer, for once. 

“I don’t know, Charles. I tried to show it to him. But since then, he has started to avoid me.”

Lando wrinkles his nose, “Maybe he is trying to reject y—”

Lando has no time to finish that sentence, though, because before the last syllabus has had the chance to leave his mouth, both Pierre and Charles had thrown themselves at him. 

“Ignore him, he is like two years old. He doesn't know anything about relationships.” Charles says, an hysterical, chocked laugh jumping between every single one of his strained words. However, it is too late for reassurance, because Max has got what Lando was trying to tell him and now that prospect has started to grow into his frail, love stricken mind. 

Now, that is the only thought pullulating his brain. _He is rejecting me_. 

He sits on the sofa, slowly, carefully, lost eyes looking far away, beyond the grey walls of that single room. He is so caught up in his despair, he almost didn’t hear the hissing “what the fuck?” Pierre mumbled toward Lando. 

Charles lets out a sympathetic sigh, “Look, Max. We can help, you know. Maybe, you just need to talk to him. Sometimes it’s just that simple.”

Max would love to ask him if he really thinks that’s the best advice he could have come up with. But venting his frustration to Charles, especially when he has nothing to do with Max’s nervous state, is not something he should do. So he takes a deep breath, thanking all of them with demotivated voice, and then he is out of the room. 

It takes him another three minutes of lucubrations before mastering up the courage to paddle toward Daniel’s office. Once there, it’s another long pause made of uncertainties and doubts. His hand is still hanging mid-air, maybe finally ready to knock, when the door is opened wide and Max gets greeted by Daniel’s ecstatic eyes and a smile so bright and sincere, for a second Max is prone to believe everything has been sorted out on its own. 

Daniel doesn’t even ask Max why he is there, in front of his room; his voice is loud and familiar, when he says, “A Code Red mission coming our way, my little chocolate pudding. Time to go on stage.” 

And the truth is, Max has never been so eager to be in action. 

-

Code Red mission actually turned out to be a Code Yellow mission, a task so easy Max didn’t even need to break a sweat. Actually, Max doesn’t know why Daniel is so obsessed with color coding missions, especially because one, Sebastian would never really allow them to do something too dangerous and two, every time they get notified with a mission, somehow it always ends up being way different than the both of them had expected. 

It doesn’t matter though, whether it was red or orange or yellow, because it may have been easy, but it still went on for more than five hours and now Max feels drained to the bone, muscles aching so bad there is a constellation of white shiny stars, on his irises, every time he closes his eyes. His knees took all the fatigue, anyway, because he has spent at least four hours kneeled behind a desk waiting for all the datas to be transferred back to the headquarter. 

When he is back into Daniel’s office, he is barely managing to stand up and after the umpteenth yawn, his mouth has started to hurt, chapped lips begging him to just stop going out in the cold for God knows how long. Daniel is still perched on his chair, sweatpants hanging loosely all over his bare feet. Max doesn’t know how, but he still finds him the most attractive man on heart. Damn biased heart. 

“I brought dinner,” Max mumbles, eyelashes fluttering rapidly with the effort of keeping his eyes open. Daniel gifts him with a sincere, almost equally tired, smile. And it may be true, that everything Daniel has to do is stay seated and scream orders into Max’s ear, but Max is pretty sure sooner or later his back will riot. They both have it hard, after all. 

“You good, mate?” Daniel enquires, words getting lost behind the crackling and ruffling of the take-away bags. Max sprawls all over the sofa, eyes finally giving up under the pressure of sleep. He just nods, because he doesn’t trust his brain, in that moment; he is too tired to keep his mouth-brain filter in place and he is trying not to do, or say, something stupid. Last night taught him a thing or two, in terms of behavior and listening to his instinct. 

“Are you sure?” Daniel asks again, this time more serious, taking a seat near Max. Max lifts an eyelid for a split second, then he lies his legs against Daniel’s thighs. 

“You should eat, angel.” 

“Don’t call me angel,” Max mumbles and it’s pretty unintelligible when it is blurted against the blue cotton of his sweatshirt and the rough fabric of the company’s sofa. 

“You still should eat,” Daniel rebuts poking Max’s calf with his icy finger. It’s the exasperation that makes Max open his eyes, when all he wants to do is get lost in his dreams. It takes him a bunch of seconds to focus on what is presented to him, to realize he is directly looking at a really delicious chicken wing. The whole scenario is so ridiculous Max actually takes a bite, just to piss Daniel off a little more.

“Wow, you don’t even have the decency to take it yourself. You are making me do all the work.” 

Max chuckles, taking another bite. He actually has no intention of moving his arms, securely cuddled against his chest. Daniel rolls his eyes, but remains silent. 

And it’s pretty comforting, that silence, so Max is back to closed eyes and dozing away his fatigue. He wants to say something, to Daniel, along the lines of “let’s go back to our place” or even “do you want to go on a date with me?” 

It’s a fortune he has no control whatsoever over his body and mouth, though, because that is something he doesn’t want to do when he is half-asleep, when all his intentions can be so easily misinterpreted. 

Daniel is looking at him, soft iridescent irises soaking up all the details of Max’s relaxed expression, “Are you sleeping?” 

Max can’t answer, because he is starting to drift into sleep, but he feels Daniel’s body warmth getting closer. Then, he perceives Daniel’s lips on his forehead. It’s delicate and familiar. It smells of strawberry shampoo and soy sauce. Max wants to live in that moment forever, crystalize it until the whole world, around them, has actually disappeared. 

“Sleep, Maxie. I had to stay here, anyway.” 

Max sighs, quiet, and then he is finally, _definitely_ , asleep. 

-

When Max Verstappen wakes up, the first thing he spots is Daniel’s back, curved all over the desk where he probably ended up getting asleep, maybe somewhere between 4 or 5 o’clock in the morning, since that’s Daniel’s bed time schedule most days. He feels a little guilty for stealing his spot on the sofa, forcing him to sleep in that awful position; at the same time, though, waking up like that, Daniel being the first thing his eyes settle on in the morning — it’s like being punched in the face. He sees Daniel, right in front of him, peaceful and relaxed. And it would be so easy, _so damn easy_ , to just slide his fingers into his curly hair. To wake him up with a soft kiss. 

It is almost like the universe is screaming at him to hurry up before it will be too late, before Daniel will slip right under his fingertips. 

Suddenly, he gets an idea. A genius idea, in his humble opinion. His eyes are still blurred, sticky heavy eyelids threatening to close back at any second, so he gets up fast, before Morfeo will call him back between his placid arms, and before he will lose his courage. He is about to head to Lando’s room to put his plan in motion, however, when he stops for a second in front of Daniel; there is a smile on his face while he wraps his coat around his bony shoulders. 

Fortunately, Lando is an early bird (or maybe he didn’t even sleep, Max doesn't know) and when Max enters his office he is already slouched on his desk, a wool beanie on his head and rapid fingers tapping on the keyboard. 

“Do you need anything, Max?” Lando asks, without even tearing his gaze from whatever he is writing. Max scoffs a laugh, realizing there is also a wild Kimi, perched on another chair. They have always been the unusual couple, those two, even though both of them share an aura of mystery floating around their past and their activities. 

Max doesn’t really have time to dwell on the oddity of Kimi and Lando, because he has a love confession to make. So he just smiles, cryptic. 

“I need your help.” 

Kimi raises an eyebrow, but Max can tell he has captured his attention; not everything can make Kimi Raikkonen stop scrolling his phone. 

“Our help?” Lando murmurs, biting away a yawn. Max is tempted to ask him what the hell did he do all night; he knows Lando won’t answer, though. He never does. So he tries to bury his worries, and a little bit of curiosity, at the pit of his stomach. 

Then, he starts talking. 

-

It’s a piercing screech that unceremoniously wakes Daniel up. He lifts his head quickly, so fast he ends up bumping it against the small table lamp he keeps near his laptop. He shrieks, hands quickly pushing against the bump he can feel growing, right on his forehead. He hopes no one has heard his scream, but he is also pretty sure his voice got somehow lost behind that tremendous screech that is still going on strong. 

Daniel looks around, trying to figure where that hideous noise is coming from. Everything looks perfectly normal, just as he left it the prior night. He wonders whether Sebastian got a new alarm system installed but as soon as his brain manages to go past the blanket of confusion, he realizes how dumb that idea actually is. Sebastian would have never ever passed the chance to have a plausible reason to convene a useless meeting. 

It’s only five minutes later, when Daniel was already considering the idea of ending that torture by banging his head on the wall, repeatedly, that he realizes the noise is actually coming from his laptop. So he grabs the keyboard with a swift swirl of his hands and he presses a random button. He doesn’t even have the time to enjoy the sudden silence, that his screen decides to go crazy, turning into a pale shade of blue. And Daniel is pretty sure that is something his computer should not be doing. 

He is one second away from losing it. No one has ever managed to hack his computer, to bypass all the security passwords he has scattered here and there. He is about to call Kimi, to demand how it had been possible, and also to ask for a little help, when he notices there are some letters, starting to appear on that blue background. Slowly, one by one, they form a complete sentence, white words flashing right before Daniel’s incredulous eyes:

_“do you want to go out with me? — Max””_

_ -_

Max is on the verge of a nervous breakdown. It’s been almost half an hour since Daniel’s laptop stopped screeching and Max knows that means he must have seen his message. However, his phone isn't ringing with sudden declarations of love and there isn't even a tiny text saying “sorry mate, it can’t work”. Nothing, radio silence. 

Daniel hasn’t even left his damn office. 

“Chill,” Charles whispers. Lando and Valtteri, from the other side of the room, snort their amusement. 

“I’ll chill when I get an answer, thank you very much Charles,” Max murmurs back, nose scrunched in a very childish way. He starts to chew on the tender skin of his fingers, right beside his nails. He hasn’t been this nervous since the day he first met Daniel, when he was scared and preoccupied his partner could have never been able to handle an impulsive guy like him. 

In that regard, Daniel has proved him wrong. Max can’t wait for Daniel to prove him wrong another time. He is really okay with everything, at his point, he just wants an answer. 

Kimi chuckles, and if he wasn't so caught up in his own personal telenovela, Max would have gasped because _damn._ The others take the job from him, though, and Lando is so surprised to hear that sound coming out Kimi’s lips he almost falls from his precarious position, right on top of the counter. 

“Maybe he is so shocked you finally made a move, he has passed out.” Kimi says,then, shrugging lightly. 

Pierre’s face turns an almost unnatural shade of red; Max can see it, that he is trying way too hard to choke the laugh Kimi’s words have generated in his throat. He lets out a strained “gne” that sounds both exhilarated and guilty. 

Max decides that the best thing to do is to ignore every single one of them, wicked socially stunted colleagues, and to stare at his phone until a text will finally pop up. 

And maybe Max has been developing magic skills, because the second he finishes that thought, that screen lights up, finally showing the picture of a lion he has as a background and a small text by Daniel. 

“He answered!” Max shrieks. Charles is all over him, trying to catch a glimpse of the message, together with Pierre; Kimi and Valtteri are more discrete in their curiosity and they just stretch their neck, faking no interest in whatever Daniel has just wrote to Max. Lando remains where he is, fighting hard to hide the smile that was ghosting over his lips. 

“What does he say?” Valtteri enquires, because he doesn’t seem like a prying kind of guy, but the fact he can’t see the text for himself is making him obnoxiously curious. 

Max lifts his head but his gaze is so distant and lost, Pierre swears he can actually point out the moment when his heart starts breaking into million pieces. 

“He says we got a mission at an electronic company.” 

-

Max is a little late when he reaches the electronic company. It’s not his fault he had to convince Charles that, _yes_ , of course he is okay, thank you very much, and, _no_ , there won’t be problems because, hello, he has a job to do and, until proven otherwise, he is a fucking pro at it. 

“Okay,” he says, a snort stuck on the tip of his tongue. He is trying to be professional, he really is, but it’s a little bit difficult when the only thing he wants to do is scream at Daniel’s face he could at least given him his well deserved answer. “Now what?”

Daniel laughs and Max hates it. Because he want to trap that laugh right into the space between his ribcage and heart, and at the same time he is fighting the urge to crush it against his shoes. He is so conflicted he feels like screaming. Maybe Charles was right, maybe he should have let someone else take over the mission. 

“Now you wait for a second. Ready?” Daniel asks, voice full of a sense of anticipation that Max, busy basking into his rage, hasn’t even perceived. 

“Yes.” Max replies, crossing his arm. He is irritated _and_ angry _and_ sad _and_ there are a million other emotions swirling all over his stomach, crawling onto his esophagus and then planting right in the middle of his frail heart. But most of all, he is really disappointed there are no cameras Daniel can hack to witness his most infamous “I am angry with you, don’t talk to me” position. 

Suddenly, on the screen in front of him, a giant, flashing red _YES_ appears. 

Max stares at the screen for a few seconds. He is a on the verge of letting his mouth run free, of crying out loud everything that he has bottle up, inside his poor battered chest, for years.

Then he hears it, Daniel’s soft chuckle, right against his ear. 

It is still too mechanical, for Max’s likelihood. But it is also familiar and comforting, and something in Max’s brain just _clicks_. 

“Oh—” he whispers, because he doesn’t know what to say, he didn’t think his brain would be so fucking complicated. 

“Yeah,” Daniel laughs, “Friday at six, okay?” 

Max doesn’t answer, though, because he is already thinking about the cheesiest way possible to tell him another yes. 


End file.
